Glass
by The Silver Feathered Raven
Summary: He'd rip the wings off a bird just to watch it fall.


She's so tiny, so small, that with one single hand he could crush her windpipe and watch her die. She's so fragile and delicate, in appearance, that he could pick her up and toss her off the side of one of the buildings and watch as she plummets to the ground, adding crimson to his bland world. She's so...she's so _annoying_ to him that he would rip out her tongue and watch her choke on her own blood.

And yet...

And yet even though he has his hand around her throat, his other curled in the front of her robes to hold her up, Shirosaki can't quite bring himself to give that final crushing blow, can't contract his hand and watch her eyes roll up in her head, can't _kill her._

He lets out a snarl, slams her down against the glass windows of the building and listens to her cough, choke, her hands grasping at his, trying to get free of him. But he won't let her go.

"St-sto-op!" she manages, drawing in wheezing gasps, her nails drawing red lines in his white skin. And then she kicks, catching him off guard, catching him in the stomach, sending him reeling backward.

_Fuck._

She's on her knees within a moment, that damn white blade in her hands, a trail of light circling around her as the white ribbon traces the air. There's a bruise on her face—_he put it there—_and a smudge of dusky red down her throat.

He laughs.

"What are you going to do with that?" he says, and suddenly the blade isn't there anymore, and it's a creeping white vine, curling around her wrist. Her eyes widen and she jerks back, but the vine catches tightly and holds.

"Bastard," and even though the words are soft, hissed into the wind, he can still hear them. "What do you want me here for?"

"Are you sure you want an answer to that, Ruk_ia_-chan?" There's a singsong quality to his voice and he fairly dances towards her, reflection dancing on the black glass of the buildings. He reaches out, his hand tracing along her jaw—only for a moment—and then she jerks her head and _bites_.

This time, though, he doesn't move away, not until he hears—_feels—_the crunch of bone.

"Fuck." There's not a whole lot of emotion in his voice, other than that laughter that's so often there. "Well, _fuck_. Look at that, Ru_kia_-chan. You bit through my hand." He wiped blood away on his white robes. "You should be proud of yourself."

She's breathing hard, and there are red welts on her arm from the vine now, from how she's struggling to get away from it. He laughs again, and the vine's gone, and a thousand butterflies—white, pure white and shining in the sunlight—take flight, filling the air.

"Aren't they _pretty_, Rukia?" he asks her, moving close again, sleeves brushing her, and with his good hand he takes a lock of her hair in his—for only a moment—and then moves away, laughing, as she swings around, clawing at him because she doesn't have any other weapon.

"_Shirayuki_," she says, whispers, and for a moment—and only a moment—he thinks that she's saying the name that he's given himself, and then he feels the pressure in the air increase and he knows who she called.

"Oh, hell no." And then the pressure's gone, and Rukia looks weak a pale before him—well, as weak a Rukia can look, because she still looks like she's going to take off his head if she so much as gets her hands on something sharp and pointy. "Don't you even think about trying to get _her_ in here."

"Can't blame me for trying."

"Oh, but I _can_, Rukia. I can. Because, you see, this is my world, and _I_ control what happens here." And the butterflies drop from the sky, falling like silver coins to splatter in liquid puddles on the glass.

"Theatrics," she says, and she's still pale, and there's still the bruise growing on her face, and he can _smell_ the blood on her, and it smells _delicious_. "Nothing more."

The silver braids itself, wraps up her legs, and she _falls_. "Nothing more, heh? Really? Because those marks on your arms look pretty real to me. I'm sure they're gonna look all the redder if you get out of here."

Her lip curls back against her teeth. "Shut the hell up." She kicks with her legs and the silver braids shatter, ice crystals dancing over the windows. "Where's Ichigo?"

Shirosaki shrugs, even though he knows full well where Ichigo is. But it's not like he's going to tell her. Oh, no, he won't tell her, because she'd go running off, and he doesn't want _that_. "I don't know. Here, there. Maybe right in front of you, Ru_kia_-chan."

"No." And her voice is as strong as he's ever heard it. "No, you're not him."

"Really."

"Yes. You're not him."

"I'm not, or I can't be?" Because he can almost hear her thoughts, see them playing across her eyes. "Why don't you come play with us, Rukia? It'll be fun."

"No."

His smile splits his face and he whips forward, one arm sliding around her waist, spinning her in a whirl of black and white cloth, and she beats at his torso and there's momentary pain as she bruises the skin there.

But he catches her wrists—her tiny, tiny wrists—and she's left to struggle in his grip. "Like a bird," he whispers to her, pulling her so very close that he can feel her breath on his face. "Are you a bird, Rukia? Will it be that easy to kill you? Or do I only need to break your wings, or rip out your feathers, so that you can never fly again?"

"Are you so cruel as that? Would you rip off a bird's wings?" Her eyes are hard, stone, glinting. There's blood beside her mouth, he notices. A bright red smear.

"Just to see it fall," he answers, and lowers his head and licks at the blood stain.

She freezes in his grip, but her blood on his tongue—her blood, red blood, warm blood—tastes like her, and it nearly chokes him. Nearly chokes him because she's right there, and she smells like blood, and she tastes like blood, but she also smells like the air and the clouds and the damn, damn rain, and he suddenly wants nothing more than to tear her apart and get away from her and run and kill and fly, dammit--

Her soul, that's it. Her soul, warm and bright and bitter and white and so so beautiful snow falling help me help me help me--

And then she's away from his grasp, and the ice crystals on the ground are gone and that damn sword is back in her hand and then the blade's through his stomach and he coughs up blood and damn it--

"Hey," he says, falling back against the windows as her weight on the blade carries the both down and the black glass cracks beneath them. "Hey, Rukia-chan. You know who I am, right?"

"Hollow," she breaths, her hands tight around that white sword.

"No, not that." He feels like laughing, and he smiles, the blood spilling up his throat, catching at his teeth, sliding out the corners of his mouth.

"Shirosaki," she says, and the sword slides an inch deeper into him. There's pain, oh yes, and it's so, so cold, as though the steel is freezing him solid.

"No, not even that. Rukia-chan, who do you think I am?" He laughs then, because her face drains of color. He reaches up with bloodstained hands, grasping her face, leaving bloody hand prints there. "Who am I, Rukia? I think you know."

"No," and it's just a whisper. "No," and now it's louder. "No!" and she's practically screaming it.

"Say it." _Say it, Rukia. Say it, say it, say it._

"No, no, no." Maybe there's more color in his skin now, other than the red of the blood. It's not so white anymore. And his robes—they're not just that pristine white that they always were. And he thinks that his eyes and hair aren't the same, either. "No. No. Ichigo--"

"Heh." And he laughs once more, his blood pouring through the cracked glass like wine.


End file.
